more to herself than anyone.
‘Maybe we should finish this another day,’ Sarah suggested gently.
‘No.’ Elena took a deep breath and fought to bring herself under control. ‘It’s got to be done at some stage. Besides, I need to keep busy. It keeps my mind off…things.’
‘I’ll go and grab some boxes then, shall I? Why don’t you start with the bookcase?’
Sarah went off in search of boxes as Elena, clearing a space in the middle of the room, began to empty the shelves on to the floor, sorting the books as she went along. Her father’s taste had been eclectic, but the bulk of his library seemed to be devoted to his twin hobbies of ornithology and trains. There was a vast array of books on each subject, many of them in French or German, and she found herself wishing that she’d kept her languages up so that she would know what was the French for bird and the German for railway.
Together, they emptied the first set of shelves and were about halfway down the middle set when Elena noticed something strange. One of the books, a leather-bound volume with an indecipherable title in faded black letters, refused to move when she tried to grab it. At first she assumed that it must be glued there, no doubt the result of some careless accident years before. But once she had removed all the other books from the shelf, she could see that there was no sign of anything sticking it down.
She gave it a firm tug with both hands, but still it wouldn’t come free. Exasperated now, she reached round behind the book and, to her surprise, felt a thin metal rod emerging from it and disappearing into the wall. Further inspection revealed that the pages, if any had ever existed, had been replaced by a solid block of what felt like wood.
She stepped back and stared at the book pensively. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she stepped forward and with a deep breath, pressed gently against the book’s spine. The book edged forward easily as if on some sort of track and at the same time there was a click as the right-hand edge of the central bookcase shifted about half an inch. Hearing the scrape of wood, Sarah looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor.
‘Found something, dear?’
Elena didn’t reply. Grasping one of the shelves she pulled the bookcase towards her. It swung open noiselessly, skating just above the carpet, until it had folded back on itself.
‘Oh my!’ Sarah exclaimed breathlessly, struggling to her feet.
The bookcase had revealed a section of wall still covered in what looked like the original Victorian wallpaper, an ornate floral pattern painted over with thick brown varnish. In a few places the paper had fallen off, revealing the cracked and crumbling plaster beneath.
But Elena’s eyes were fixed not on the wall but on the narrow green door set into it. On the hinges glistening with oil. Recently applied oil.
Location unknown
5th January – 4.32 p.m.
Large damp patches had formed around his armpits and across his back as he leant forward on the long table and stared at the jet-black conference phone that lay in the middle of it, a small red light on one side flashing steadily.
‘What is it?’ The voice that floated up from the phone was calm and cold.
‘We’ve found him.’
‘Where? In Denmark, like we thought?’
‘No, not Cassius.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Him. The last one.’
A pause.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where.’
‘London. But we were too late. He’s dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve seen the police report.’
‘And the body? Did you see the body?’
‘No. But I’ve seen the photos taken at the autopsy and a copy of the dental records. They match.’
A long silence.
‘So,’ the voice eventually sighed, ‘it is over. He was the last.’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.’ As he spoke, he spun the gold signet ring on his little finger. The ring’s flat upper surface was engraved with a small grid of twelve squares, one of which had been set with a lone diamond.
‘The beginning?’ the voice laughed. ‘What are you talking about? Everything is safe now. He was the only one left who knew.’
‘He was murdered. Killed in his hospital bed.’
‘He deserved a far worse death for what he had done,’ was the unfeeling response.
‘His arm was cut off.’
‘Cut off?’ The question was spat into the room. ‘Who by?’
‘Someone who knows.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Why else would they have taken it?’
Silence.
‘I will have to call the others together.’
‘That’s not all. British Intelligence is involved.’
‘I’ll call the others. We must meet and discuss this.’
‘They’re working with someone.’
‘Who? Cassius? We’ll have caught up with him before he gets any further. He’s been sniffing around this for years. He knows nothing. The same goes for all the others who’ve tried.’
‘No, not Cassius. Tom Kirk.’
‘Charles Kirk’s son? The art thief?’
‘Yes.’
‘Following in his father’s footsteps? How touching.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Watch him. See where he goes, who he talks to.’
‘Do you think he could…?’
‘Never!’ the voice cut him off. ‘Too much time has gone by. The trail is too cold. Even for him.’
